


feeling, feeling: potentially lovely, perpetually human

by possessedradios (orphan_account)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: All The Consent there's so much consent and that's the sexiest part of this fic, Also everyone is trans because I'm trans and I said so, Awkward Mid-Make-Out-Conversations, But like. Approved Voyeurism??, Canon Asexual Character, Compulsion, Established Relationship, Fluff, Idk if there's a word for that don't ask me about sex, Idk when in canon this takes place but it has to be an AU anyway bc everyone is pretty happy, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Yep Compulsion Kink is back babey (listen if Elias is into it Martin can find it Interesting too ok)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 07:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17803454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: If he's being honest, Martin isn't sure Jon agreeing to his proposal that he could touch himself while Jon watchesisn'tan Archivist thing, to a degree, but he's not about to complain.





	feeling, feeling: potentially lovely, perpetually human

**Author's Note:**

> ...I. Literally started this last November I am Done, take it and make of it what you will.
> 
> Note that um, if you are looking for like, actual pwp you're so super valid but this might not be what you want! Despite the tags, the kinda-smut in here hardly deserves this title (hence the M rating) and is, like, maybe a third of the word count if we're being generous. This whole fic is incredibly rambly and self-indulgent and the kinda-smut is super awkward first, kind of sappy second, and, I'm pretty sure, not really sexy at all 'cause this is Projection Zone Delüxxx. (Someone please tell me how to advertise my stuff I think I'm not doing a very good job.)
> 
> (Oh, also, if you dislike generally female-coded words for trans male anatomy ("clit", specifically) please be aware that I used the word, like, twice.)
> 
> Title taken from Open by Regina Spektor.

Jon is still not very good at kissing. He’s dedicated, and he definitely wants to be good at it, but it turns out just a tad clumsy; the way he never seems to know just how their lips are supposed to fit together, the way he never gets the pressure quite right and doesn’t seem to be sure just how long each individual kiss is supposed to last. Martin doesn’t mind; it’s just something that sticks out to him, because he’s always thought of Jon as someone who’d be good at everything he tries and does. That was a silly thought, probably; no one is good at everything, and he knows he tends to idealize people. He’s talked this through with his therapist a thousand times. 

But that’s really not something he wants to think about right now, so he doesn’t. Instead he focuses his attention back on the task at hand—kissing Jon; something that still strikes him as surreal even after nearly three months of dating. _Dating._ He smiles against Jon’s lips, and Jon, of course, doesn’t know why he’s smiling—or, no, perhaps he does; one never knows these days—but he smiles back anyway, and Martin’s chest feels tight and warm and wonderful. _I did that,_ he thinks, _I made him smile, I can make him smile, now._

He can do a lot _more_ , now. He can gently pull Jon a little closer and run a hand through his hair, he can stroke his back and push a hand under his shirt, trail his fingers over the naked skin there. He does it hesitantly, slowly, he leaves Jon the opportunity to draw back or otherwise signal any theoretical discomfort. Jon never said it out loud, but Martin is sure he appreciates it. He did draw back a few times, or shook his head to wordlessly tell Martin to stop whatever he was doing. Martin doesn’t mind that, either—of course he doesn’t. 

The initial conversation had been incredibly uncomfortable and unimaginably awkward, mostly because Jon had refused to say the word “sex” out loud, and Martin, unfortunately, isn’t among the members of the archival staff who count mind-reading to their skills, so he didn’t know what to make of the sentence “We have to break up because there’s relationship stuff I don’t like” first, but they’d… Well. They’d figured it out, eventually, and Jon had seemed surprised that Martin didn’t think that his boyfriend being asexual was a break-up reason, but he definitely didn’t complain about it, either. (He had also seemed surprised by the word “asexual” itself; by the fact that there’s a name for what he feels or doesn’t feel; that it’s a label a lot of people use for themselves. This still makes him sad when he thinks about it; it makes him sad that Jon thought he was just _weird_ or _broken_ or—) He pushes the thought away, because that’s definitely something he doesn’t want to be thinking about right now, either.

Anyway.

They’re dating, that’s the point, and Jon likes kissing, a lot, so they do that; they’re on Jon’s bed and they’re kissing, and Martin slowly pushes a hand under Jon’s shirt to trail his fingers over the naked skin there, and today, Jon doesn’t object. Instead, he moves to press a soft kiss to Martin’s neck instead of his lips, and, _oh_ , that’s still something that makes his whole body feel weirdly hot-and-cold-simultaneously. He bites his lip and— And then makes a surprised noise, something like a very badly concealed gasp, when Jon shifts and presses his leg between Martin’s, one hand on Martin’s thigh and pulling him closer. 

He doesn’t really dare to move, so he just stays like this, breath a little shaky, and Jon grins against his neck.

“Okay,” he says, low, as if to himself, and Martin laughs. It sounds a little breathless, and he’d be ashamed for it if he didn’t know that Jon probably doesn’t think it’s ridiculous.

“What… are you doing?” he asks.

“I can say with absolute confidence that I have no idea.” Jon’s voice is a little muffled against Martin’s skin.

Martin laughs again, tries to make sure that it doesn’t sound as if he’s laughing _at_ Jon, and lifts a hand to play with his hair. They both stay like that for a few seconds.

“Um,” Martin says eventually. “D’you want to… I mean…” It’s a little hard to think with Jon’s thigh between his legs, evidently. (It’s also rather hard to not grind against it, but he manages, just about.) “…Are you… comfortable with this?”

Jon hums, and it sounds a little surprised, as if he hadn’t even considered this question before. “I am… not quite sure? It seemed like a good idea at the time, and now I’d feel silly to stop, but I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do further.”

Martin waits another second and thinks about these words, tries to put them into one of his categories (he’s made three of them after their conversation, but never told Jon about it: ’things Jon definitely likes’ (kissing); ’things Jon doesn’t like’ (sex); ’things Jon might perhaps like to at least try’ (?))

He doesn’t really come to a conclusion, but that’s enough for him to move away just a little and untangle their legs. Jon looks at him.

“You’re not… not _supposed_ to do _anything_ ,” Martin says slowly. “I mean, you— You don’t _have_ to—”

“No, I— Yes. I know.” Jon nods and reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of Martin’s face. “I just…” He shrugs. 

“I know!” Martin says. “It’s, um, it’s fine! Really. Just, please just don’t… don’t do anything because you think I want it? I just, I just want you to be comfortable.”

Jon frowns and sounds frustrated when he answers, “But I want _you_ to be comfortable.”

That’s not the first time they’ve had this discussion, and it’s a little… well, not weird, but Martin can think of a whole bunch of sexier things to do while kissing. But he gets, he thinks, why it’s so important to Jon, why he keeps bringing it up, why his reasoning always adds up to ’But what about what _you_ want?’ eventually. Sometimes he worries a little (a lot), worries about Jon and his assigned role and getting used to doing things without getting a chance to think about whether he feels comfortable doing them; things like saving the world and reading statements and translating French on the fly despite not knowing the language at all. He doesn’t want the intimacy between them to become one of those things, so he’d rather Jon talked about it.

“I’m fine, Jon,” he says. “I’m comfortable! Just… just being with you makes me happy.”

Jon nods, slowly, still looking at him intently, as if he’s trying to figure out if Martin’s lying. 

“We can… We can keep kissing, if you want?” Martin proposes, and Jon nods again, which is good, because Martin likes kissing him, and he knows that Jon likes kissing him, too.

Still, something about today is different. Jon keeps pulling him close, very close, with his hand on Martin’s thigh, and he keeps breaking up their kisses to press his lips to Martin’s neck instead. Martin does his best to try and read Jon’s body language, does his best to try and figure out if Jon seems hesitant before he does—well, anything, but… 

But concentrating on that gets increasingly difficult, really, and by the time Jon presses another kiss to his neck and then _bites down_ slightly, coherent thoughts feel way out of reach. Martin buries his fingers in Jon’s shirt and his head in Jon’s shoulder. “I… God, Jon…”

There’s the hint of a grin against his skin again, and then the soft words, “I like… I really like the noises you make, Martin.”

Martin can feel himself blush, and this time he can’t help feeling a little embarrassed for it; he doesn’t know what exactly about Jon it is that has him acting like a teenager, but it’s really not _fair_ , because Jon is definitely the one with less experience, and yet it’s him that seems more confident, it’s him that just goes and says things like ’I really like the noises you make’— 

—’things Jon likes’ (kissing; the noises Martin makes)— 

—’things Jon might perhaps like to at least try’ (? (?))

He bites his lip and slowly loosens his grip on Jon’s shirt, trails his fingers over it. “I, um,” he says, and then cuts himself of because his words prompt Jon to draw back and look at him. He frowns and gently brushes his thumb over Martin’s bottom lip. Martin stops biting it.

“I, we, uh. Would you— I could— I mean, I don’t have to, you can, you can say no, but—”

“Martin,” Jon interrupts him, brows still furrowed and sounding the tiniest bit—impatient? Amused? He’s hard to read, sometimes. “Just… say what you want to say.”

“Right,” Martin says. “Um, right. I could… um. Touch myself?” The last two words are spoken against Jon’s shoulder again, muffled, and for a moment there’s only silence, and Martin is worried that Jon might have not even heard it, that he might have to repeat it. When he pulls back to look at Jon, though, Jon is looking back with such an intensity that he’s sure he heard.

“…Would you like that?” Jon asks.

Martin is, for some reason, surprised that Jon’s voice is void of any embarrassment; it’s just a question, curious but neutral. He nods slowly. “I… yeah? But you— I mean, you can— like I said, you can say no, and I can just—” He doesn’t end the sentence. (And it wouldn’t be the first time that Martin leaves to take a shower and take care of matters himself quickly, anyway.)

Another few seconds of silence, and then— “Can I watch?”

Martin blinks at him. “I… _yes_. Yes, of… of course, if you… want that?”

Jon looks thoughtful for a moment, as if he’s trying to picture it, but clinical, so detached that it makes him almost uncomfortable.

“Would that… be okay?” Martin asks eventually, because Jon just doesn’t say anything.

“Yes.”

Martin has to hold back a laugh, simply because the whole situation seems so _absurd_ and because everything about this exchange is so unbelievably _Jon_ —he’s never been a man of many words, Martin supposes. “I, um. I… alright! Cool.” He hates himself for saying that half a second later. Jon’s mouth twitches into a smile for a second before he moves back to give Martin some more space. 

He had, for some reason, expected to be more self-conscious about stripping in front of Jon, especially with Jon keeping his clothes on, but it comes surprisingly easy, almost naturally; he takes off his t-shirt and drops it over the edge of the bed thoughtlessly, not thinking for even a second about his body or all the ways it might feel wrong to himself, not concerned that Jon might find something wrong with it, too, not even with Jon watching him. It’s a nice feeling, confidence was never something that came easily to him. With his hands at the waistband of his boxers, he hesitates again, though.

“And you’re— You’re sure this is okay, right? I don’t—” A thought occurs to him, suddenly, and he trails off. “Wait… That—is that an, um, an Archivist thing, that you, that you want to watch me—”

“Martin,” Jon sighs. “If you were aiming for dirty talk, I’m afraid this won’t really do much for me. It’s… No, it’s… definitely not an Archivist thing.”

Right. No tape recorders here. No prying eyes, safe from Jon’s. Jon-his-boyfriend’s, as opposed to Jon-the-Archivist’s. The thought is calming. Martin nods, and pushes his boxers down a little hurriedly, mostly just wanting to get this over with, because the hesitation did manage to feed the tiniest spark of self-consciousness. It’s Jon who reaches out to tug them off completely, pushing them over the edge of the bed to land somewhere close to his shirt. They both just look at each other for a few seconds, after that. He can feel Jon’s eyes in a near-physical capacity, trailing over his body, lingering at the stretch marks on his stomach, at a scar he got after he got into an embarrassingly ridiculous accident involving a washing machine a few years ago. And maybe it’s an Archivist thing for _him_ , after all; the way he feels completely splayed out like a table full of puzzle pieces that make up his body, the way he feels like Jon can see everything in detail and high-resolution, every single small part and secret. 

It’s not an unpleasant feeling, exactly.

It’s Jon who breaks the silence eventually. “I, erm. I… think you’re very… attractive, Martin,” he says, and Martin tries not to laugh at the awkward pause in the middle of the sentence, or at how lost Jon looks as he’s saying it, or the way it almost sounds like a question.

“Not really the pinnacle of dirty talk either,” he says with a small grin, and Jon’s eyes widen the tiniest bit.

“Erm. No,” he admits. “Not really, I’m. I’m not… very good at any of this, I’m afraid. I suppose it _would_ be me who’d have to—do the dirty talk, correct?” He shifts a little and looks uncomfortable at that. Martin quickly shakes his head.

“It was a joke, Jon,” he says. “It’s fine, you don’t have to, um, do or say anything, really.” 

Jon nods, and then there’s a few seconds of awkward silence, and Martin is still almost-completely naked, and suddenly he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. Jon seems to sense the slight tension, because after another moment, he simply reaches out to pull him into a kiss, soft and unhurried. Martin relaxes; it’s very easy to lose himself in the sensation of Jon’s lips ons his own, no matter if he is good at it or not. He shivers slightly when Jon trails his fingers over his stomach, then his side, and then, touch feather-light, over the edge of his binder. 

“Are you sure you want to keep this on?”

Martin nods without opening his eyes 

“Do you want me to kiss you again?”

Again, Martin nods, and Jon does, and Martin finds himself amazed by how much a difference it makes to be naked, by how much more vulnerable he feels, and by how easily the trust he puts into Jon comes to him despite all this. It feels natural, logical. He runs his hand over Jon’s side, over the soft fabric of his shirt, then pulls it back slowly and—

Jon pauses when Martin exhales shakily against his lips. 

For a second or two, the tiniest amount of time that seems to stretch into all of eternity, Martin is uncomfortably aware of their respective positions as Jon pulls back slightly—Jon, still wearing his t-shirt and his boxers (but not his binder; Martin doesn’t quite get how he’s so comfortable with taking it off around him) and _watching him_ , Martin knows without having to open his eyes, and Martin— 

Martin, with his hand between his legs, fingers pressed against himself. He slowly blinks, glances at Jon, still concerned that he might suddenly realize he doesn’t want this, but Jon’s just quietly looking at him. Most of the tension falls off Martin the second he realizes that Jon’s expression is neither disapproving nor uncomfortable; he simply looks neutral, and a little curious; attentive. Martin slowly moves to lie down on his back, and Jon reacts by sitting up and shifting so he’s closer to Martin, only inches away from him—and with much better view. Martin shivers and doesn’t really know why—there’s nothing conventionally sexy about this; not, in any case, the way they’re doing it. But still… There’s something about being watched, something about Jon being the one watching him, Jon having been the one to ask if he was allowed to. It’s Jon, too, who eventually breaks the eye contact, gaze slowly wandering down his body again and finally resting on Martin’s hand.

He keeps his own attention on Jon, even as he moves his hand, spreads some of the wetness before he lightly brushes his fingers against his clit. It’s… different, with someone else this near. Better. Slowly he moves again, spreads his legs a little further apart, tries to give Jon even more to see. And Jon looks, he watches, eyes never leaving him. Martin doesn’t think anyone’s ever looked at him so closely, certainly not for such a long amount of time. He feels nearly helpless, Jon so close yet so passive, but the consequential discomfort doesn’t come. Instead it’s easy to dismiss the awkwardness of the situation, forget about it—it’s much easier than he could have anticipated, to rub his fingers against himself, twist the sheets into his other hand, it’s just as easy as doing it alone, in his own flat. 

A soft noise escapes him as he keeps moving his fingers, a whine or a whimper, or both. Immediately, Jon’s gaze snaps from his hand to his face. Martin meets his eyes, analyzing and curious and warm. He bites down on his lip and shifts his hips, presses himself closer to his fingers. 

A few seconds pass, near-silence filling the room. It’s only the sound of their breathing; Jon’s, even and calm, and his own, slightly shaky. And then Jon asks, “Does it feel good?”

The question and the genuine curiosity it carries catch him off guard. He nods, almost hurriedly. “ _God_ , yes,” he says, “it’s— _yes_.” 

There’s the hint of a smile on Jon’s face, prompted, perhaps, by how genuine Martin’s answer came out, and he really didn’t even think about it before talking—

_Oh._

He looks at Jon, eyes wide.

Jon looks right back, and reaches out a little hesitantly to trail his fingers over Martin’s shoulder, along the strap of his binder, then down his arm. The gesture leaves goosebumps in its wake, even more so as Jon guides his hand further down, along his side, until he lets it rest against Martin’s hip. His thumb starts rubbing soft circles into his skin. “How… _does_ it feel, exactly?” 

A strangled noise catches halfway in Martin’s throat. His hips twitch; he rocks into his own touch, aware of it but not completely voluntarily. The question vibrates somewhere in his chest; some kind of low buzzing, and before he can think about how to answer, he already does. “I, it’s— Can’t really describe it well, it just… feels _good_ , it’s this, this kind of _tension_ , or, or anticipation, like when you’re on a roller coaster and you keep going up and you _know_ that at some point you’ll just… drop. It keeps building up and gets stronger, it’s—it’s warm and, and prickly, but, in a good way, like a thousand bright sparks, and, and—God, _Jon_.”

Jon stares at him once Martin falls quiet again, safe from his quick breaths and a single low whine as he slides two fingers into himself. Slowly, the dawning realization in Jon’s eyes, quickly turning into consternation. He pulls back his hand as if he’d just burned either Martin or himself. “Christ, no, I am— _so_ sorry, Martin, I—I didn’t mean to…” He trails off when Martin shakes his head. 

A small part of him is filled with something that feels suspiciously like pride at Jon’s words; he likes the idea that he was too… distracted, too preoccupied with looking at Martin and with wanting to _get it_ to realize he let some compulsion slip into his voice. He bites his lip and shakes his head again. Considers stopping, for a moment, but it feels like this would take too much effort; it’s much easier to just keep going, keep enjoying the warmth, that pressure, building up and up and up; everything he just described to Jon.

“Don’t apologize, it was… felt nice,” he somehow manages to get out. 

“...Nice,” Jon repeats flatly, hand hovering somewhere between their bodies. The sensation of being stared at is an almost physical one, Jon’s eyes are sharp and perceptive, he studies Martin’s face for a few seconds before his eyes flicker down to take in the movement of his hand. Jon exhales slowly. “Right,” he says. “If you—if you’re…” He trails off, keeps staring, then asks, a little hurriedly, “Do you want me to, er. Keep asking you, then? Things? Because I—I think I could do that. I’m good at that, if nothing else.”

There’s no compulsion this time; Jon voiced the question too carefully for that, and Martin takes a moment to consider it. Thinks about how much he enjoys hearing Jon’s voice, about the only barely graspable feeling that washed over him at being asked—Asked—, thinks about the possibility to tell Jon everything he might otherwise be too shy to voice but _wants_ him to know—

“Please, yes.” He arches his back as he curls his fingers, free hand reaching out to grasp at Jon’s because he misses being touched. 

Jon slides his hand into his properly, intertwines their fingers and gives Martin’s hand a soft squeeze. The look of confusion-then-horror is gone from his face. Instead his lips twitch up into something like a smirk, not an expression Martin thought he’d ever get to see on Jon.

“So you—you like my voice, Martin? You like… this?”

’This’ being: The feeling of Jon’s voice wrapping itself around him like a snake might wrap itself around its prey; tightening ever so slightly, tugging at the syllables forming the correct answer until they spill over his lips. 

“Yes. Yes, I _love_ your voice, Jon, you don’t even know how much.”

If this is how the compulsion feels for everyone, he doesn’t understand why so many of the people Jon has met disapproved—there’s this soft buzzing; again, still, a residue, and—and he really didn’t lie, earlier: It _is_ nice. He closes his eyes and turns his head slightly into the pillow, whole body tense with an easy sense of anticipation, breath shaky; he tries to brace himself for the next question— 

Jon’s thumb against the back of his hand, touch brushing against his skin featherlight. “Do you think about me when you touch yourself alone, too?”

It’s the lack of hesitation that takes Martin by surprise the most—he didn’t expect Jon to give any thought to something like that, to take it into consideration, and yet something about his voice (low and deliberate and once again filled with genuine curiosity) makes him think that Jon must have wondered about it even before tonight. 

“Yes,” he gasps, “I— Yes, of course.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but he can feel Jon looking at him, still holding his hand, giving it another light squeeze. The remnants of the compulsion bristle in his chest, spread out through the rest of his body as he finally notices that he’s stopped moving his fingers at some point. He shifts to press them against his clit again and they’re still wet, slide against him just right. Jon’s fingers tighten around his at his low moan.

“Do you want to tell me what exactly you imagine when you’re alone?”

For a moment, Martin is too breathless to answer. He clasps Jon’s hand in his own, only vaguely aware of his whimper as he presses his fingers more tightly against himself, rocking his hips to meet his own movements. He tries to take in all of Jon’s voice; how soft it is, words still calm and purposeful, but gentler. The compulsion seeps into him slowly this time, something sweet and sticky, like honey; not as forceful. He thinks he _could_ refuse to answer, but he doesn’t want to; there’s something incredibly satisfying to replying to Jon’s questions; surrendering his thoughts and feelings and his own personal knowledge of his body and experiences to Jon, and, well, this most definitely _is_ an Archivist thing, but he finds he really doesn’t mind, not with the soft sparks of torrid electricity caused by the compulsion somewhere caught inside his chest. There is something incredibly intimate to it. For a moment, there’s images of himself flaring up inside of his head; him, naked on his bed, fucking himself with his fingers or a toy, and of course it’s Jon he’s thinking of—

“Just—just, you,” he says, and only marginally notices how breathy his voice is, how shaky, “You, kissing me and, and touching me, your fingers instead of mine, your tongue, and, and my hand in your hair, I think you would look really good between my legs, looking up at me, God, please…”

He’s not sure what exactly he’s saying ’please’ for; isn’t sure he’s actually addressing anyone specific in the first place, but Jon reacts nonetheless, he leans down to kiss him, deep and passionate, the kind of kiss Jon often reciprocates but doesn’t usually initiate himself. He pulls his hand out of Martin’s to slide it into his hair instead, and Martin opens his eyes when Jon eventually pulls back, because it seems like the right thing to do, and Jon smiles (only a little awkwardly) as their eyes meet, and maybe that is, after all, exactly what Martin wanted. He buries his now free hand into the sheets, hips twitching, and he’s so—

“Are…” Jon trails off for a moment, looks at him, calmly, and then finishes his sentence, almost cruelly deliberate: “Are you close, Martin?”

The way he says it, it comes out matter-of-factly, there’s nothing sexy about it, not really, but Jon’s voice is so incredibly soft and the compulsion in this question so strong, and—

And Martin whimpers, nods; he breaks the eye contact to turns his head back into the pillow, muffling his moan as he comes.

He stays like that for seconds, hand just as shaky as his breathing when he pulls it away. Jon’s own hand has never left his hair; he keeps running it through it slowly. After a while, Martin blinks up at him. Jon is already looking at him and smiles again as their eyes meet. 

“Are… Are you alright?”

Martin laughs weakly. “I—Yes. Very much so.” He stretches a little and then sits up slowly, only to be promptly pulled into a hug. 

Martin sighs and leans his head against Jon’s shoulder. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s genuinely relieved that the whole atmosphere is still just as light and familiar as before; that he doesn’t feel too awkward about the whole thing. He sighs again. “I should probably take a shower, uh, or…”

He trails off when Jon hums, sound acknowledging, but still just pulls him closer, pressing as kiss to his cheek, chin, then his lips. He wraps his arms around him properly with no indication of letting go any time soon again, and Martin thinks, _Well… or maybe not_ , and relaxes into the hug. He wipes his fingers at the sheets as best as he can, and Jon stirs. “That’s gross, Martin,” he mumbles. 

Martin grins and presses himself closer. “You’re the one not letting go,” he says, and then, “It’s my side, I’ll be sleeping on it.”

“My sheets,” Jon answers simply, but he there’s no actual disapproval present in his voice. He kisses him again, one hand going back into Martin’s hair, running through it, mussing it up just to smooth it over a second later. 

“That was,” Jon says eventually, so slow that Martin becomes immediately aware that he is picking the words very carefully, “the first time I’ve felt comfortable in a situation like that, I think. I… liked it, I. Watching you was… You looked… good. I liked it. ...Thank you.”

_I love you, too._ For a few seconds, that’s all that’s present in Martin’s head and stuck in his throat, and he bites his tongue to keep them there, to not let them slip out. He doesn’t know how Jon would react, doesn’t want to ruin everything.

“You’re welcome,” he says instead. “I’m glad this… was, um, good, or, uh, okay for you. I… liked it too. A lot.”

“Good,” Jon says, and then nuzzles his head into the crook of Martin’s neck.

Martin closes his eyes and considers just going to sleep like that, but only for a moment before he sighs and gently pushes Jon a little back. “I’m, um, all sweaty and gross and sticky,” he says. “I _really_ should go take a quick shower, or, um, at least…” He trails off and vaguely gestures at himself. Jon’s brows furrow a little, but he does let go.

“You should… take this off,” he says, and lightly tugs at one of the straps of his binder. Martin nods; he knows, he’s been wearing it for probably-a-little-too-long already. And of course Jon would have noticed. For the second time, it costs Martin all of his restraint to not just blurt out what’s in his head—IloveyouIloveyouIloveyousomuch. Instead, he smiles at Jon and presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek before he gets up.

Jon is already laid down when he walks back into the bedroom, wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt again (but not his binder; Jon would be very unhappy with him if he’d have kept it on). The lights are turned off, and Jon’s breathing is even and deep. Martin isn’t sure if he isn’t already asleep as he lies down next to him, until Jon reaches out to grab his hand, tugging him close.

Martin smiles, and his chest feels warm as he shuffles even closer and hugs Jon. He tries to kiss him, misses at first and brushes his lips against the tip of his nose, then, grinning, finds his lips. “Goodnight, Jon,” he whispers, and Jon hums. It sounds sleepy, and content, and Martin pulls the blanket higher up.

It’s scaringly easy to forget how wrong their lives are in theory, with Jon pressed to his chest and their arms wrapped around each other. Every war they may have somehow gotten roped into, all the knowledge of all the evil things that’s, as far as some people are concerned, Jon’s entire purpose—it’s far away and meaningless. All that matters here and now is Jon’s calm breathing, the way he tucks his head under Martin’s chin. The soft rustling of the sheets whenever one of them moves a little. The fact that Martin doesn’t care if others think of Jon as “the Archivist”, think this is his sole reason for existence now. It’s not true, anyway, not when Martin looks at Jon and instead thinks that he may as well be his _raison d’être_. _That’s a nice expression_ , he thinks as he closes his eyes, and tries to stow it away somewhere inside his heart together with all the other things about this moment to be included in a poem later.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading if you got this far!! I know this isn't what's usually super popular with fics including Sex Stuff (and I clearly wasn't going for that, either, I just,, really craved a fic including All The Awkwardness that can come with sex) and anyway, I appreciate anyone who got through the whole thing, honestly!! Also, if you're interested, the "we have to break up" conversation mentioned Will Follow because Mer told me they want to read it (y'know, back then, in November). :3


End file.
